


The Ragnar Bet

by fractalsinthesky



Series: flint and tinder [10]
Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: (both endings are happy), Fluff, Gen, Other, Two Endings, idle horny daydreams, lots of f-bombs, rated for bear-related violence, stupid clumsy flirting, underwater panic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-12
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2020-12-09 17:44:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20998817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractalsinthesky/pseuds/fractalsinthesky
Summary: Dep has their eyes set on the elusive Ragnar the Terrible. Sharky's pretty sure it's just the Hope County equivalent of an urban legend, so he takes them up on their offer of a wager. The stakes? A kiss. Has two versions: one with and one without a bear.





	1. A Perfectly Normal Bet for Friends to Make

The boat’s motor died about halfway to the island, the sad rattle carrying across the water and fading into the steady lap of the waves against the rubber keel. Then it occurred to Sharky that he hadn’t seen any spare oars hooked at the side where they were usually stowed.

“Well, shit.” Rook checked around the floor again before admitting defeat, zipping up their jacket and tucking their handgun in their backpack. “We’re gonna have to swim the rest of the way.”

“Listen, I’m a great swimmer an’ all, but…that’s pretty far.” He eyed the water doubtfully. “Ain’t Faith been pumpin’ the river full of Bliss, too?”

“I mean, it’s swim or stay here and wait to either float ashore or get spotted by one of the Peggie river patrols.” They shrugged. “We’re basically sitting ducks out here. And I think we’ll be okay if we don’t swallow too much lake water.”

“Alright, I trust you, dude.” He squinted out towards the island. “Someone’s got a tent out there. And another boat.”

Looked like a little jetski, actually, nosed up on the rocky beach. Why would someone go to the trouble of takin’ it all the way out there just to ditch it?

They followed his gaze, standing stock still for a moment before relaxing. “No movement. And I don’t see any of those stupid lawn ornament crosses the Peggies plant everywhere they go. Gimme your radio and any spare ammo you got—my pack’s water-proofed.”

He handed everything over and they stowed it carefully, then sat on the side of the boat, balancing their rifle next to them. They grinned over at him, dangling their boots in the water. 

“If you catch Ragnar on the way over, I’ll give you fifty bucks.”

He snorted, plopping down next to them and putting his shotgun up on the side. “Yeah okay, shorty. Don’t get your hopes up, though—I’m pretty sure 'Ragnar the Terrible' don’t even exist.”

“What? The great ghost of the marina, a hoax?” They gave him a look of mock affront, scooting off the edge into the water. Then the shock turned legitimate. “Oh fuck, dude. Oh my god, it is cold.”

“Well, yeah. Shit comes down from the mountains.” He grinned at the desperate way they were eyeing the boat. “Rethinking the float option?”

They scowled, legs churning hard. “No. Get in. Tell me about the fish I’m gonna catch.”

“Ugh, fine.” He eased down the side of the boat, hissing as the icy water slid through his old jeans. Oof, sorry boys. Rook spluttered, wincing away from the splash as he fell the rest of the way in. His jaw was stiff with the cold, but he worked it open. “It don’t exist. I’m tellin’ ya, Dep, it’s just a story Aunt Addie made up to get business for the marina. People renting boats to get out here, extra bait, swanky tackle and shit. Smart, right? But uh, no way is that thing for real and no way are you gonna catch it today.”

They surged up, grabbing their rifle off the boat and holding it aloft as they tread. “Give me two hours, and you can apologize to Ragnar’s gross fishy face for not believing in him.”

“Not gonna happen, man!” He kicked up to snatch his shotty, following suit and eyeballing the distance to the island. Fuck, this was gonna suck. 

They snorted, striking out awkwardly, their pack floating behind them. “You wanna bet, Shark?”

He laughed as he swam, elbow dipping now and then into the wavelets. “Man, you are just itchin’ to lose money today.”

“Hey, now that I’m rollin’ in it, I wanna spread it around a little.” They glanced at him over their shoulder, smile sharp and teasing. “Unless you’re chicken.”

“I ain’t chicken!” He missed a stroke, using his free arm to splash them in protest. “What kinda stakes we talkin’ here?”

They splashed back. “Depends. What’re you willing to lose?”

He thought as he swam, heart pounding hard against the chill sinking into his bones. “What’s the reward come up to, again?”

“Uh…I dunno, actually.” Their head bobbed lower into the water, but they kept the rifle high and dry. “Enough to be Skylar’s exit strategy, apparently.”

He snorted. “Then why she ain’t here swimmin’ with us?”

“Man, don’t ask me. With all the Peggie patrols, travel isn’t easy. Maybe she just…can’t get down here.”

He hummed in understanding. “Not everyone can be as badass as us.”

They laughed, and the affection in their voice curled hotly in his gut. “Ain’t that the truth.”

His arm was aching, so he switched, stroking with his left while lake water dripped over his ear. 

“I mean, it’s not gonna be an issue because there ain’t no ‘Ragnar’ to catch, but…you just gonna take that prize money since she’s not here to collect?”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna take it right over to her when we head out again.” He had trouble reading the look they shot him. “Cash isn’t the goal. I just like to win.”

He snorted, watching the little island draw inexorably closer. Could’ve guessed that. That wild rush of triumph that blew out their pupils in a firefight, the wolfish grin and breathless laughter afterwards, the trashtalk and gloating. Maybe he should be worried about it, seeing as how much murder they were doing and all, but it was actually…kind of sexy.

He cleared his throat and ducked his head back, letting the cold water flash against his hot ears. “Well, you usually do.”

“Don’t back down on me, Shark—we could have a long afternoon ahead of us.” That wolfish grin again, and he couldn’t look away. “Let’s make it interesting.”

“Okay,” he blurted. “How ‘bout a kiss?”

The words hung in the air, and he flinched at the awkward weight of them pounding in his ears. Too much. Wow, that was stupid. Couldn’t smooth that out with a joke without coming off as a dick. Maybe it’d be fine. They were cool with a lot of the weird shit he said, so maybe they’d just chalk it up to that.

“A kiss…if I don’t catch him?” they asked hesitantly. “From you?”

“Uh, yeah. Y’know…unless you’re backing out.” 

He tried to watch them from the corner of his eye. Staring at ‘em straight on would be a mistake. His face would do something weird for sure, and it’d only make it worse. He could tell they were glancing at him, but couldn’t make out their expression. Not extreme, at least. Probably a good thing. Still, the silence crawled between his shoulder-blades. 

“Deal,” they said lightly, and his heart jumped up in his throat.

“Deal?” he echoed, almost dropping his gun.

“Yeah, deal.” They sighed and switched arms, the strap of their rifle dipping into the water. “And what if I catch him?”

“You’re the one pushing this bet thing, so how ‘bout you fuckin’ pick—why do I gotta do all the work?” He could swear his water-logged sneakers scraped up against rock a couple times, but it was still too deep to stand. “‘Sides, you’re not gonna catch a fish that doesn’t exist.”

Shit. No Ragnar the Terrible meant they would lose the bet. Then they’d be obligated to follow through. Should he just plan to bitch out? Kiss their cheek or hand or something tame like that so they weren’t uncomfortable? But they’d agreed to the wager, so didn’t that mean they’d considered the possibility of losing and been okay with it? 

So should he actually kiss them, then? What would that be like? He couldn’t deny that he’d thought about it a few times before. A few hazy dreams, even. But those had all been fantasies—private movies playing out in his head that would never actually happen or affect his real relationships, risk ruining that rare and very special friendship he’d found with the Deputy. The thought of really leaning in, of seeing those dark eyes slide closed in affection and trust, their full lips warm and gentle against his, was making him feel flushed, despite the cold water.

But a kiss was a kiss, and they could be long or they could be short, but they all ended eventually, and then they’d be right there standing in front of him just the same as they’d ever been, except he’d kissed them. And every time he thought about it, dreamed about it after, he’d know what the real thing was like. And that he’d never experience it again.

He swallowed, something small and sick worming in his gut. Then he realized they’d said something and were looking at him expectantly.

“Uh, what’d you say? Sorry.”

“I said ‘Then you got nothin’ to worry about.’ But…just in case. What do I get?”

“You’re the one pushing this bet thing, so how ‘bout you fuckin’ pick—why do I gotta do all the work? Just—what do you even want?” His next kick landed on solid stone, but when he tried to plant his other foot, it just plummeted through open water and he fell in up to his chin before he caught himself. “Shit.”

“You okay?”

He considered goofing around—play-acting that something was biting him or grabbing his leg or something. Full-on trash compactor monster. But he saw their face twisted with actual concern, and felt preemptively guilty.

“Yeah, just found like a boulder or something. I’m good.”

“Okay, cool.” They stretched out so each stroke carried them further. “Hey, will you hate me if this other boat’s out of gas?”

“Oh my God, dude, don’t even say that,” he groaned. Felt like his arm was about to fall off. He switched the shotgun to his left. “You’re gonna jinx us. Exactly like O’Hara’s.”

“O’Hara’s?” they repeated incredulously. “How was that shit my fault? You guys had a freakin’ serial killer out here for years before I even—”

“‘Ooh, Shark,’” he mocked, grinning up at the sky and pitching his voice louder over their protests. “‘How spooky would it be if these bodies were real?’”

“Me sayin’ that didn’t retroactively make them real!” they sputtered, floundering to a stop. “You saw the same shit I did. Don’t give me that—that quantum theory bullshit.”

“I’m just sayin’, Dep. Maybe you puttin’ that out into the world…you know, kinda brought it to life.” His sneakers ground against unexpected gravel and found purchase. Fuckin’ finally. “Not intentionally or nothin’—I mean, you’re really good at murder but you’re also like, a legitimately good person.”

“Shark, I think you’re trying to be nice, but please don’t suggest I in any way contributed to that pile of clothes in that crazy fuck’s attic.”

He started to laugh, but a glance to their face killed that real quick. Their eyes were wide, and they looked gaunt. Wounded. A kind of shell-shocked desperation that made him want to rush to their side and check for injuries, and it made him miss a stroke.

“Oh fuck, Dep, you know I say stupid shit all the time. You’re workin hard and changin’ things for the better out here, okay? I was just messing around.”

“No, I—I’m sorry. Just tired of all this bleak…crap we’ve been dealing with.” They flashed him a thin smile. “I like talkin’ shit with you.”

“Cool. Cool, cool, dude.” He nodded in a way that he hoped was casual. “Also I can pretty much stand now—you?”

“Scrapin’ with my tippy-toes. But it’s good to see we’re close.”

“Yeah, for sure.” He was walking slow now, like he was on the moon or something, and the sight of dry land scant feet away made his shoulders sag. “Thank Christ.”

“Oh! I got it now!” They sank a little further down, the water lapping at their chin. They grinned, though, and used their free arm to splash him, laughing when he spluttered. “How big do you think it is? She said he was a paddlefish, right? I’ve seen ‘em get five feet long.”

“Aw, Dep—don’t get your hopes up.” He drifted closer to them, trying very hard to keep his face composed in an earnest expression of concern. “If we had a fish that big in this lake, it would’ve eaten us both on the way over here. And uh, I hate seein’ you disappointed.”

They switched their rifle to their far arm, cocking their head and narrowing their eyes in suspicion.

“What’re you—”

Before they could finish, he’d pounced. Well, as much as he could pounce with water up to his neck and one arm straining to keep his shotgun lifted up and away, but he managed to cuff his other arm around their shoulders and dunk them.

“Yeah!” he whooped, bouncing back out of splashing range as they resurfaced, spitting lake water and looking at him with gleeful disbelief. “Don’t start shit you can’t finish, Dep. I ain’t afraid to step to ya.”

“Oh you will be, Shark,” they promised, glaring at him and advancing threateningly, but the effect was ruined when they stepped into a hole and disappeared under the water again with a startled gurgle.

He used the opportunity to wade closer to the island, boots churning up the steep, gravelly grade until the water was sucking at his knees, then swirling around his ankles. Then his feet crunched over dry grit and he stood in the sunlight, clothes heavy and dripping.

“Finally,” he sighed, closing his eyes and letting the warmth of the sun bathe red against his eyelids. Fuck, his arms were leaden and aching. He stooped over, setting his gun down on a convenient rock and stretching. He could hear Dep sloshing their way over, and cracked an eye open to watch their progress.

“Got some bad news for you, Shark,” they said, swiping strands of wet hair from their face. The water was up to their chest, but they were pushing forward with purpose. “You ain’t gonna see Ragnar after all. ’Cause I’m gonna kill you and use your ass for bait.”

He grinned and backed a few steps up the uneven rise, holding his hands out in placation. “C’mon, Dep. You an’ I both know that’d-that’d be a shameful waste of a great ass.”

Rook snorted, shaking their head as they plowed towards him. “Should’ve thought of that before you betrayed me.”

Thigh-level. He had an idea. Probably a bad idea, but before he could think it through, he was already moving, running down the slope and launching himself at them. They shouted and tried to get out of the way, but they were just a little too slow and he caught them full on around the waist and tackled them back into the water.

Rook curled around him, arms locking around his ribs with steely strength, and he could feel them kicking to right themself against his weight. He tried to surface and get better leverage to wrestle, but they wrenched him around, pushing off his chest to get air first and planting a hand on the top of his head, ruffling his hair playfully while keeping him from popping up. He burbled in protest, poking their side in hopes that they’d squirm away ticklishly. Instead, a knee jack-knifed up and caught him in the crotch, sending bright flashes off behind his eyes and the last of the air from his lungs.

Oh shit, he tried to say, but when his mouth opened, the lake came rushing in. He barely had time to register the panic at the cold, thick fingers of water snaking up his nose and down his throat before he was hauled up into dazzling light by the front of his sweatshirt.

“Dude, you okay?” 

Their eyes were wide, and he wanted to assure them that he was fine, just needed to hack it out for a bit—but he couldn’t stop coughing and his chest was stiff.

They didn’t wait for an answer. Slinging his arm over their shoulders and cinching an iron grip around his waist, they hauled him through the water, casting him onto the shore and rolling him quickly onto his side where he could choke what felt like a pint of lake water out into the dirt. When he could finally breathe again, he just lay there, taking in ragged gasps that tasted dizzyingly sweet while they knelt behind him and rubbed brisk circles over his shoulderblades.

“Hey—” he rasped, lurching to get up, but they stopped him, shoving their balled up jacket under his head and urging him to lie back down.

“Wait a bit,” they said, settling heavily beside him and draping an arm comfortably over his side. “Give yourself some time. Get it all out.”

He slumped back down, clearing his throat and staring out at the lake. Not the first time a joke had backfired, but damn. His breath caught and he started hacking again, retching over the path until he tasted bile. His throat was raw, and his sinuses felt gross but at least his airway was relatively clear. He checked over his shoulder to make sure Dep wasn’t watching, and tucked his thumb against one side of his nose and blew hard, then switching, wiping his nose on his sleeve and sniffing experimentally when he was done. Much better. His chest still felt tight and sore, but it was fading.

“Well shit,” he said, falling back on the makeshift pillow with a squelch and staring out at the water, deceptively calm and reflecting the sky. A blameless blue, giant fluffy clouds drifting serenely as if nothing was wrong, as if the world wasn’t ending. “Think I may’ve swallowed your fish, Dep.”

They snorted, clapping his side, hand warm and heavy over his ribs. “That’s okay, Shark. You, uh…you really scared me there. How’re you feelin’?”

“Been better,” he sighed, rolling onto his back and looking up at them questioningly. They’d lifted their hand while he moved, but once he’d stilled again, the gentle pressure resettled on his chest. They weren’t making eye contact, though. Just staring down at their own hand with a little frown wrinkling their brow. “I’m good, though. Uh, thanks for pulling me out.”

“‘Course,” they said, nodding abruptly and leaning back, wiping their hand on their jeans like it stung. “Sorry for—sorry I didn’t let you up right away. I thought you were fucking with me, and I don’t, uh, I don’t react well to being tickled.”

“No shit,” he grinned so they’d know he wasn’t mad. “Don’t need to tell me or my junk that. Big 10-4, El Capitan. Message fuckin’ received.” 

They ducked their head, smiling slightly. “Yeah I guess. Also sorry about that. Literally, a knee-jerk reaction.”

“Nah, man. You’re good. Sorry for being an idiot.” 

They swatted his arm, flashing him a warning glare. “You’re not an idiot. Stop saying that.”

He never knew what to say to that, so he just mumbled something in an agreeing tone and picked at the grit under his fingers. His chest felt warm, heartbeat wobbly. Maybe a side effect of the whole almost drowning thing. Yeah, that excuse’d hold for a couple days. And with the sheer amount of crazy bullshit they dealt with on a near-hourly basis, he’d probably have another in the wings by the time that one got stale.

They were looking at him, and he felt a blush crawl its way across his cheeks. Say something. Say something, dummy. They’ll know. They’ll know and they won’t smile at you anymore. They won’t joke with you anymore. They won’t sing along to the radio with you or listen to your dumbass stories or save you the last Hostess cupcake when you’d thought Lorna’s had been picked clean, grinning smugly in response to your delighted yell, passing it over without a second thought and licking the melted chocolate from their fingers as you stuff the greasy cake in your mouth whole. If they knew, their smiles would check themselves, take on that tight, brittle, pitying quality like everyone else’s did when he opened up. 

They’d stop sharing with him. Not all at once, not at first, but eventually they’d distance themself entirely. And he’d be alone again.

He swallowed hard.

“So,” he said gruffly, rolling over and getting to his feet, resolutely not missing the warm pressure of their hand as it fell away. “We come here to catch a fish, or what?”

He could feel them watching, their eyes pressing at his back, and he busied himself with picking their jacket out of the dirt and slapping the grit from the sodden cloth. Eventually they just sighed and followed suit, opening up their pack and taking out the uneven metal piping that was their collapsible rod.

“I’m gonna poke around,” they said, heading up the path and gesturing for him to keep the jacket when he offered it back. “Find a good casting spot. You wanna see if the jetski works?”

“Yeah, sure. If it doesn’t, I vote we just live out the rest of our natural lives on this island. Had enough swimming to last me a while.” He eyed their strong thighs as they worked their way up the slope, knotting their jacket around his waist. Their jeans were still soaked through, grit clinging to the dark denim from where they’d been sitting. That couldn’t be comfortable. His were already chafing something awful. Things were pretty quiet on the island—maybe they’d be safe going pantsless for a bit. Let that shit dry out so it wouldn’t itch. Yeah, that was a good idea. Just a couple buddies hanging out on a remote island with no pants and the whole day ahead of them.

He coughed, tearing his eyes away from their ass and heading for the jetski. Task at hand, Boshaw. 

The keys weren’t in the ignition, because of fucking course they weren’t, but he’d become a pro at hot wiring all kinds of shit over the past few weeks. The wires sparked readily, and the engine caught with a throaty purr made him grin. The fuel gauge needle bobbed to the three-quarters full mark, and he whooped. Fuck yeah, dude! More than enough to get back to the marina. ‘Bout time they caught a break. 

He turned to holler the good news at Rook, but before he got the words out, a sharp crash and a startled yelp shot out over the rise.


	2. The One With the Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharky wins the bet. Technically.

A hoarse roar ripped through the cold air, instantly recognizable.

Bear. What the fuck was a bear doing on this island? He slid off the jetski and scrabbled up the slope, slinging his shotgun across his shoulder and flicking the safety off as he ran. His heart pounded violently at the roof of his mouth as he crested the rise and saw a black bear barreling across a ravaged campsite as Rook fired their revolver. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He hauled ass down the incline, skirting the worst of the campsite debris and trying to get an angle where the shotgun spread wouldn’t threaten his friend. He slipped on a scrap of orange tent siding and slammed his knee into a rock in his haste to catch himself. “Shit!”

The bear roared again, and he saw it lift a paw up to swipe at Rook, felt the dim thud of its impact through the earth, and heard them cry out. Fuck.

He aimed high, in the center of its back because that was safest and he had to do something to get its attention. Still too far away to do any real damage, but it flinched and looked over its shoulder, pink tongue curled behind massive white teeth as it bellowed at him. Christ. It’d be okay if he pissed himself, right? Like, this would be a justifiable scenario for that to happen, right?

It turned to face him fully, long claws digging in the red dirt, and he shot at its head, hoping one of those tiny, blessed metal balls would lodge itself in its eye. It snorted, pawed at bloody tracks in its snout, and launched itself at him.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered, back-peddling and unloading as rapidly as he could. He heard dim piping of Rook’s silenced revolver, so they were still alive, at least.

An angry bear could take a lot of lead, but thankfully, this one had reached its limit. It let out a low, wavering groan, staggering to a halt only a few feet in front of him, and keeled over. He sighed, working the shotgun strap over his shoulder. Bears were cool—he didn’t like having to put one down, but his ass was not getting eaten today, no sir.

Rook was sitting up against a knobbly pine trunk, breathing hard and examining a bloody gash in their arm. There was a small scratch over their brow and they were covered in pine needles and shit from the fall, but their arm was serious.

“Bet you want this back now, huh?” he cracked with a shaky grin as he unwound their jacket from his waist and slipped the arm gently beneath theirs, then tied it tightly above the wound. Not the best tourniquet, but it was better than nothing.

“Guess so. Thanks.” They knocked their head back against the tree and sighed. “This island can’t be much bigger than your trailer, but of fucking course we’d find a bear.”

“Want the good news?” He offered them his hand and they latched on with their good arm, grimacing painfully as he hauled them up. “Jetski works. Plenty of fuel, too.”

“Christ. That…that is good news.” They sagged against him, hanging onto his shoulder for a moment. His heart tightened as they smiled. “I was gonna ask you to put one between my eyes if I had to swim with this thing.”

“I mean, you never know, Dep.” He helped them over the hill, even though they seemed to be walking just fine. They didn’t seem to have lost a whole lot of blood either, but they could be in shock. That was a thing, right? “We could always get hit by a falling anvil or a piano or something on the way back.” 

“Fuck, you’re right. Murphy’s Law has nothing on Hope County.” 

The jetski sat where he’d left it, and he looked at them doubtfully. “Uh, you want to drive?”

They usually insisted on it, which had taken some getting used to, but they let him pick the music and sang along with him without making fun, and that was a trade-off he was happy to make. It wasn’t a long trip back to the marina now that they had a ride, but it could be tricky if they ran into a river patrol.

“Nah, you better do it,” they said reluctantly. 

He snorted, climbing on and waiting til they’d settled behind him before he kicked off of the bank and sparked the engine. “Thanks for that ringing vote of confidence, dude.”

They laughed, good arm sliding around his waist and giving him a friendly squeeze. “You know I don’t mean it like that, Shark.”

They scooted in closer, thighs pressing firmly against his hips, crotch and stomach warm and snug against his ass and back. He cleared his throat, grateful they couldn’t see his face, because he probably looked pathetic, undone by the slightest bit of physical contact.

“The marina, right? Ready?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded and eased them further from the bank, pulling a tight circle to point them towards the marina, then gunned the throttle. Cold wind flickered against his face, getting strong enough to push the bill of his hat back dangerously, and he ducked his head against it. Rook curled over his back, and he felt them nuzzle into the loose fabric of his hoodie. He leaned into them as much as he dared, definitely not thinking about how it would feel to have them up against him like this, but without the awkward impediment of all these damp clothes. Their grip shifting, hand drifting down while they murmured something soft and sly in his ear.

The jetski hit a wavelet and cast cold spray against his cheeks, dispelling the fantasy. He shook his head briskly, scowling at himself. His friend was hurt. Not the time to indulge in that shit.

“Almost there!” he called over his shoulder, and felt them nod against his back.

The marina rushed up to meet them. He could see people standing on the docks—some fishing, some keeping watch with rifles in their arms. He pulled a hand off the handlebars and waved. They were pretty obviously not a Peggie patrol, but still. Couldn’t hurt.

One man waved back. Sharky pulled up to the dock and recognized Xander. Yuppie McWashboard Abs had a big dopey grin on his face, but it faltered when he got a better look at Rook.

“Yo, what’s up, guys? You doin’ okay, Deputy?”

“Been better, Xan. Think I need stitches.” 

They steadied themself with his shoulder, trying to step onto the dock, but they timed it wrong and their boot slipped. Sharky reached to help, but Xander had already caught them and was making sympathetic noises as he gawked at their wound. Sharky glared down at the warped wood as he clambered up on the pier. Almost fell too, but did Xander blink an eye? No, he did not. Rook didn’t either, but they got a pass on account of the whole just-mauled-by-a-bear thing.

“Looks pretty gnarly,” Mr. I-Can-Name-Every-Muscle-Above-the-Waist-Even-the-Weird-Ones-in-Your-Back said, nodding sagely. “Medical stuff’s up by the snack stand. Are, uh, you guys hungry? We got some fish comin’ off the grill soon.”

“Yeah, maybe later—see you, Xander, gotta go!” He put a hand on Rook’s shoulder and propelled them down the dock. They grinned at him sidelong, and he scowled. “What?”

“Are we a little threatened by the West Coast baby-faced hardbody?”

He bristled, looking pointedly at their arm. “Hell no, we just have more important shit to do.”

“Uh huh, okay.” They scuffed their sneakers in the grit as they walked up the slope. “You shouldn’t be. Threatened, I mean. He’s just a kid.”

“Right? Try tellin’ that to my auntie, and half the chicks ‘round here. Some of the dudes, too.” 

They rolled their eyes, nudging his side with an elbow. “You get plenty of looks yourself, Disco Casanova.”

He raised his brows. “Don’t make fun of me, Dep—ain’t anybody lookin’ at me when you and Xander’re walkin’ around.”

“I’m looking at you.” They grinned at him, and someone up there must’ve been watching over him because he didn’t immediately fall flat on his face.

When he got over the instant, hopeful shock, he kicked a rock off the path and watched it skitter off into the bushes. “You know what I mean. It’s been…it’s been a long time. Like, I’m talking years. And the last couple relationships I’ve been in were, honestly, really not great. I’ve been thinkin’ maybe—maybe the whole love thing…might not work for me.”

“Shark.” They grabbed his chin and turned him to face them. They were frowning intently, but when they saw how upset he was, their expression gentled. “I’m getting stitches. But we’re gonna talk about this, okay?”

“Okay—” he started, but before he could say anything else, they leaned in and kissed him on the lips, warm and affectionate, but quick. Too quick for him to properly respond, but when they pulled away he was already planning what to put on the first mixtape and what kind of pizzas to order for the wedding reception.

They grinned at his shocked expression, sauntering backwards as a couple medical volunteers rushed out of the makeshift clinic to meet them.

He had a few questions, ranging from ‘did I miss something?’ to ‘when can we do that again?’ to ‘should our first dance be to a banger like “Sunny” or somethin’ a little slower so we can hold each other real close and whisper truly nasty shit ‘bout what we’ll do to each other later without anybody hearing?’ but what came out was: “Uh. What?”

“Our bet?” They shrugged innocently. “Don’t think I’ll be catching Ragnar today. Technically.” 

“Uh-huh.” He couldn’t stop a slow grin from spreading. Maybe he hadn’t just been projecting. “Think I was supposed to kiss you, though. Technically.”

“Oh. Then, uh, I guess I owe you one, huh?” It was hard to tell when they were blushing, but they ducked their head in a way that was distinctly self-conscious but pleased. 

One of the medics grabbed their elbow and led them away toward the snack stand. He watched them disappear inside, digging the toe of his sneaker into a divot of the path, heart thumping painfully in his chest.

Maybe. Please. God, please let him not be projecting this time.

Sharky touched his mouth softly, wonderingly. They’d kissed him. Not because of the bet, but because they’d wanted to. He‘d felt it in the pressure of their lips, in the way they’d leaned into him, their eyes sliding closed. They weren’t generally impulsive—at least, not in the way he’d seen them make decisions in the fight against the Seeds—so they must have been thinking about it for a while. But how long? A few days? A week, maybe? He thought back, cycling through the glances and gestures, the smiles and jokes they’d sent his way over the past month of traveling at their side. What could he have possibly done to earn this?

He grinned. Fucked if he knew, but he wasn’t gonna waste it.


	3. The One Without the Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sharky loses the bet. Technically.

There was an awful, tinny screeching that set his teeth on edge echoing up over the rise. He stumbled off the jetski, tugging it more securely up the bank so it wouldn’t drift away when he was off investigating, grabbed his shotty and jogged up the slope. The campsite he’d spotted from the boat was nestled against a copse of tall pines. Rook was bent over near the tent, fiddling with something on the ground in front of them.

“The fuck are you doing?” he called, scowling as he came over. “Murdering a baby Transformer?”

They straightened with a grin, toeing a chunky radio with the tip of their shoe. “Trying to get some tunes going. This thing might be busted, though.”

“Well, jetski works at least.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Plenty of gas, too.”

“Thank Christ,” they sighed, picking up the radio and tucking it under their arm. “I’ve had enough swimming for today.”

“Me, personally? Uh, I’m good for at least a week.” He cleared his throat, clapping his chest pointedly. “Make that two.”

They nodded towards a dirt path threading through the bushes. “C’mon. I found a little dock through there.”

“So, what, you want me to just dick around while you burn a beautiful day fishin’ for the local Loch Ness monster?”

They shrugged, not bothering to turn around. “Think of it as a vacation day. Take a nap, jack off, whatever if you don’t wanna hang out. I got some Bliss oil and a few baggies of weed in my pack, and I think I saw a handle of whiskey in the tent if you’re feelin’ it. We’ll probably net a few extra fish if you’re down to start a fire.”

He grinned, socking them in the shoulder. “Who you think you’re talkin’ to, Dep?”

They snorted, eyeing him sidelong. “I think I know you fairly well by now, Boshaw.”

He laughed uncertainly. “Uh, you mean that in, like, a good way, right? Just ‘cause I usually hear that in a…different tone of voice.”

They stopped and turned to him, putting their free hand on his shoulder and looking at him seriously. “Yeah, I did. I’m really grateful for your company and your friendship, Shark. Sorry if that wasn’t clear—I can’t imagine dealing with all this crazy shit without you.”

“Oh. Cool,” he managed, face hot and throat closing up. “I like you a lot. Too, I mean. I mean, I think you’re pretty cool.”

They beamed, and he gave up even trying to talk, grinning at them helplessly. Fuck, they must think he was an idiot. Oh well. At least if they did, they’d decided he was an idiot they liked having around. He’d take that in a heartbeat.

The radio squawked, and they jumped, snatching their hand from his shoulder and clapping it to the scratched plastic. “Oh shit, I almost dropped it.”

“I dunno how much actual music you’re gonna get out of that thing,” he said, clearing his throat and falling in next to them as they started down the path again. “Looks basically busted.”

“I’m hoping it’s just interference from the trees,” they said, glancing at it doubtfully. “We’ll see.”

The brush cleared, and he could see the path peter out into a surprisingly solid wooden dock, the sun glinting off wavelets in the river and the familiar, green smell of the water carried gently on the breeze. Great-Uncle Lloyd had always insisted the best fishing was done in the morning, and had taken him out a few times as a kid when the air was chill with mist and the fish danced up and out of the water in celebration of the dawn. It was definitely closer to two pm by now, but maybe paddlefish weren’t as much early risers as trout. 

The boards bounced under his sneakers, and he stopped, watching as they walked out to the end and set the radio at their feet. It whined, spat a quick burst of static, and resolved into the droning, twangy bass of old country.

“Gross,” he said, wrinkling his nose, and jerking his thumb back towards the campsite. “Have fun with your old hick shit—I’m gonna get that fire goin’.”

“Don’t be a snob!” Rook protested, snapping open their fishing rod and testing the line as they grumbled to themself. “Just ‘cause it doesn’t have synth…”

“You’re lucky I like you, okay? I got enough taste for the both of us.” He laughed when they made a face, and flipped them off before heading back up the path, affection glowing warm in his chest.

There’d been a rough firepit dug out near the tent, and he inspected it quickly before gathering supplies. A little shallow for a proper bonfire, and the stones circling the perimeter were spaced fairly widely apart, but he could fix that. He got pretty absorbed in the task, expanding and deepening the pit with the help of a steel coffeepot left behind by the last camper. He emptied his pack in the tent and went back to the jetski, picking some decent-sized rocks from the shore and lugging them back to the clearing, rearranging them until he was satisfied. Cool. 

He kicked some leaf litter away from the circle and set off after wood. Fallen pine needles, dry leaves, and some handfuls of long, dead grass should serve well enough to catch initial sparks, and he hunted around the bushes for twigs and slimmer dry branches. Anything too green would generate a lot of smoke, enough to be seen above the trees, and nothing killed the vibe quicker than Peggies crashing the party. He usually liked a classic pyramid setup, but if they were planning on using it to cook anything, he’d better go with the log cabin stack.

He hummed to himself as he worked, pausing now and then to clean excess dirt and lichen from the sticks. Not bad. Be easier if they were on the mainland, but it had been a dry summer, and there was plenty to work with here. Couldn’t stack it too high, but they’d need to feed it to keep it going, so he kept gathering wood until he had a healthy-sized pile by the folding chairs.

“Ow, fuck.” A splinter dug into the pad of his thumb and he picked it out with his teeth, spitting it into the dirt. Could be worse. He sucked until it stopped stinging, and glared at the offending branch. “Fuck you, asshole—you’re goin’ in first.”

He picked it off the pile and dropped it into the middle of his stack. The pack should still have some matches, and a few lighters. He didn’t remember how many he’d picked up since Lorna’s. Who got an orange tent, anyway? Shit was ugly as hell. For being abandoned, it didn’t smell too bad, and was a pretty decent size. No obvious holes in the siding. But that color would be visible a mile away, and Peggies patrolled the river too frequently for them to sleep without setting watch. 

Too bad. He’d never slept better than on those rare nights they found a bunker or a Resistance outpost secure enough to find a couple cots close to each other and close their eyes without having to worry about a Chosen or an Angel or those scary fuckin’ Judges stumbling across their campsite. Maybe Dep’d call it quits on Ragnar before nightfall and they could just head back to the marina for some shut-eye. It’d looked like the main garage and the utility hub were being outfitted with bunks when they’d passed through that morning—still, there were a lot of folks staying there already. Probably have to double up.

Dep’d be cool with that, right? Yeah, why wouldn’t they be? They were friends, after all, and it wasn’t like there was a hotel down the road or anything. Plus, nights near the water got real cold. He’d be grateful for a little extra body heat—surely they’d see it the same way. 

Especially if the bunks were like, twin-sized or something, so they’d practically have to be spooning just to fit. Just curling up next to them, feeling their heart beat through his back and their warm breath soft against his neck. They seemed to like to spread out in their sleep, so they’d probably end up slinging an arm over his side, or their leg or something, but he’d be fine with that. He’d be very fine with that. In fact, he’d even be fine with it if they held him closer, instinctively pressing themself against his warmth and solidity in their sleep, maybe waking up in the morning and realizing how comfortable it was, how well they fit together. He could still be sleeping, but maybe they’d keep still a while once they were awake, not wanting to let him go any sooner than they had to. They could try to fall asleep again, even—maybe planting a thoughtful kiss on his shoulder and smiling to themself as they finally understood why they felt so relaxed and contented around him. 

He sighed, the static throbbing in his legs bringing him out of the fantasy. He was still crouched at the mouth of that hideous orange tent, pawing through his pack for a lighter that still had fuel. Which wasn’t bad, but still, a far fucking cry from the sappy bs in his imagination. 

Not gonna happen. He swallowed hard, giving his head a sharp shake. Let it go.

He found a shitty little blue one, its coating scabbed and peeling, leaving flakes the color of Oreo packaging against his palm. When he flicked the spark wheel, a soft orange tongue flared to life, and he felt better. 

That’d work.

Sharky straightened up, stamping a few times to clear the tingling from his legs, and went back to the new and improved firepit. Should get this going ASAP if it was gonna get hot enough in time for dinner. The tinder caught quickly, red and gold eating the pine needles and leaves in a flash, but staying long enough to catch the twigs, twigs in turn lasting long enough for the fire to set its teeth into the larger branches. 

Not much wind. He added a few branches over the stack, careful not to crowd them too close together and suffocate the baby fire. Should be good for a bit. He double-checked the perimeter of the pit, kicking a few questionable patches further out of spark-range until he was satisfied it was safe to leave for a few minutes.

He hoped Dep wasn’t bored yet. They seemed to like fishing more than most sane people, but still. If they had their hopes set on a legendary battle with a mondo ghost fish, they might not be getting as much out of the ordinary stuff as usual.

The light had shifted, blushing more orange and throwing spindly shadows across the path. He started to hear snatches of music from the radio—still country stuff. He sighed irritably, about to holler at them to change the station to something more listenable, when he caught a softer sound just below the canned twang and steel guitar. He froze, cocking his head.

They were singing along. Absentmindedly. Not every word, not exactly in tune, but their voice was sweet and low and contented in a way that made his heart ache. It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard them sing before—they’d belted along to a bunch of stuff with him on truck rides all over the county, and they’d gone in with Nick, Grace, and Mary May on a particularly ear-splitting insult to Billy Joel at the Testy Festy. He just hadn’t heard them like this. Tender. Unguarded. He felt a little guilty listening in, aware that this was at least a couple degrees in the invasion of privacy zone, but he didn’t want to stop them by announcing his presence and he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

Something about the timbre of their voice was really soothing. He wondered how it would sound from closer up, like if they were just hanging out on the old striped sofa in his trailer and maybe his head was resting on their lap while they held his hand and ran their fingers through his hair, their voice buzzing comfortably through his bones.

God, too fucking cheesy. He was lucky they let him tag along, all this embarrassing shit running through his head. He decided to go ahead and interrupt them—better than creepin’ around in the bushes like an asshole.

“…take a little note, to remind you in case you didn’t know…” They broke off as the line jerked, and reeled quickly, song forgotten. He sighed in relief, walking forward again and calling down to the dock.

“Find Nessie yet?”

They didn’t turn, fighting the fish on the line, gaze fixed on the ripples over the water. “No paddlefish yet, but there’s a couple bass for dinner keepin’ cool there.”

They tapped the support post to their left and he could see the handles of a plastic bag looped around the wood.

“Sounds good, dude. Got a little fire up whenever you’re ready to throw in the towel.”

They snorted, pulling a frantically twisting fish out of the water with a grunt and inspecting it for a moment before carefully removing the hook and throwing it back. “Don’t hold your breath, Shark. I said I was gonna catch him, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

“Would it really be that bad if you didn’t?” he asked, unable to keep the self-consciousness from his voice. They looked over their shoulder, clearly surprised, and he hastily tried to salvage it. “I mean, it’s gonna be cold as fuck out here tonight, and it ain’t exactly, uh, the most defensible spot to camp.”

“Oh. Well,” they glanced out at the sun, sinking inexorably towards the horizon, casting out again. “You good if we call it at sunset? Take the jetski back to the marina?”

“Mhm. Yup. Yeah, that sounds fair to me,” he nodded, relieved they weren’t pressing the bet angle. “You, uh, cleaned those bass yet?”

“Be my guest.” They stepped aside, smiling as he joined them at the end of the dock. “Thanks, Shark.”

Sharky grinned back, kneeling down and pulling the bag up halfway out of the water, taking one of the fish and unhooking his knife from his belt. “Anytime, Dep. Thanks for catchin’ dinner.”

They ducked their head, but whatever they meant to say was lost in a startled yelp as the rod jumped in their hands. “Fuck!”

“Need me outta the way?” he asked as they recovered, bracing themself against the opposite post and wrenching the line hard.

“Nah, you’re good, it’s just—strong.” They stepped back slowly, letting the reel spin out for a little. “Gonna run it for a bit. Tire it out.”

“Cool cool, just holler if you, uh, change your mind.” He set to scaling the bass, quick strokes of his knife sending them glittering down into the dark water in cascades. He was relieved it was already dead. He never liked finishing them off.

Dep grunted behind him, and he heard the soft, reedy clicking of their reel spinning in. The boards shifted under his feet as they switched their stance. 

He slit the belly and pulled out the guts, letting them fall into the water with little plops. Circle of life. It’d be an easy dinner for another fishie somewhere in there. He rinsed the cavity briskly, running a finger along the sides and spine to check for missed chunks. Clean.

He swapped the finished fish for the one in the bag and started scaling it. 

“Holy shit,” muttered Rook, exhaling unsteadily. He heard the whine of the reel unspooling. “Felt the line starting to give.”

“Losin’ your touch, man,” he teased. “Don’t you usually have ‘em by now?”

They scowled, adjusting their grip on the rod. “This guy’s crazy strong, okay? Think it might be him.”

He rolled his eyes. “Dep. It’s not Ragnar.”

They glanced at the sun, the molten copper disc passing beneath the black silhouette of the bridge. “It better be. Might not have time for another shot to win this thing.”

His heart thumped, and he almost dropped the fish he was gutting. Oh god, the stupid bet. Would they want to settle immediately? Get it over with? His hands’d smell like raw fish, and no way would that be anything less than disgusting. He’d started to wonder if maybe even a dumb little kiss from a bet, if he made it as good and sweet as he could, might get them thinking about him in a different light. Optimistic, sure, but better a slim chance than nothing at all, right? Except they’d lean in and he’d smell like fish guts and it wouldn’t matter how gently he pressed his lips to theirs, and if he tried cupping the back of their neck it wouldn’t be tender, it’d just be him getting scales in their hair.

Sharky finished the bass as quickly as he could, one eye on Rook as they struggled with whatever nameless fish was on the line, silently praying they didn’t land it before he was done.

He practically threw it in the bag with the other one and hauled it up streaming from the lake.

“I’ll get these started,” he said, voice overloud in his ears. “BRB.”

“What? Okay.” They shot him a confused look as he hurried down the dock, but were thankfully too busy fighting the fish to follow up.

He trotted up the path, sniffing eagerly at the comforting smell of woodsmoke that was coming from the campsite. His little fire had taken hold well, staying politely within the stone perimeter and barely spitting at all. He set the wet bag down and fed a couple new branches into the fire before starting on the skewers. Luckily the nearby bushes had long limbs with relatively few shoots, and he was able to get a couple stripped and ready for cooking in no time.

He used another branch to gently spread the dwindling stack so the skewers could lay across the stone ring without getting eaten by the flames, and then carefully threaded the fish through their gills onto the thin skewers. Nice. They’d have to be turned now and then, but otherwise he wouldn’t have to do much but make sure the fire stayed fed.

Sharky wiped his hands on his jeans, grabbed a fistful of the coarse sand around the pit and scoured his palms, between his fingers, and under his nails for good measure, wiping them again on his hoodie. Would that be enough?

He spotted the handle of whiskey, glassy neck reflecting the fire from its position nestled in the tent. Alcohol cleaned shit, right? He plucked it out of its resting place and doused both hands quickly, sucking his teeth at the cold and checking the label. Pretty high-proof. He took a pull, wincing at the burn, and shook them out to dry. Then he poured a little out into the cap, splashing the fish. Not a whole lot in the ways of flavoring out here, but hopefully the smoke and the little lash of booze would save it from being too bland. The fire flared up at the alcohol, but he’d been careful, so it ebbed back quickly. He could smell the fish starting to cook and sagged back, taking another swig.

Okay, everything was fine. Everything was good. He sniffed his fingers experimentally and they didn’t smell like fish anymore, so that was a plus. Maybe shaking a little, though. 

He tipped the bottle back again, coughing as it pricked his sinuses. He wanted to check on them, but he also didn’t want to be pushy. And to tell it true, he was dreading seeing them disappointed. It’d hurt, even if he knew they felt more sore at losing than the prospect of kissing him. 

This whole thing was stupid. He should just call it off. If they kissed him, it shouldn’t be out of pride or a sense of obligation. It shouldn’t be something that made him anxious, that polluted the easy joy of their interactions with ‘what ifs’ that would never play out the way they did in his imagination. They had a good thing going. He wasn’t gonna ruin the best thing that had happened to him in decades on a dumb bet. He’d call it off.

He rotated the fish and left the campsite, walking quickly down the path before he could change his mind.

He heard splashes and a stream of breathless curses from the dock ahead, saw them straining back from the edge, cranking frantically away at the reel. Their boots slid over the old boards.

“You good, dude?” he called, jogging over, frowning. “Jesus, it’s still on the line?”

“Yeah, but—he’s getting tired,” they panted, flashing him a sheepish smile over their shoulder. “I think.”

He snorted, drawing up a few feet short uncertainly. “Well if he’s not, you definitely are. Do you want—can I help?”

They shook their head, eyes alight, taking a few steps down the dock, that wolfish grin spread wide. “Appreciate you, buddy, but I gotta do this.”

“Uh, do you really, though?”

They took another step right as the line jerked hard, yanking them off-balance. He lunged forward, grabbing their shoulder before they fell into the water. They’d still managed to keep hold of the fishing rod. Of course. Freakin’ stubborn.

He grinned, holding them maybe a few seconds too long once they were back upright. “Catch of the day, huh?”

They laughed, leaning briefly against him in gratitude. “Thanks, Shark.”

“Yeah, any time, amigo.” He should tell them he didn’t care about the bet. He should get it over with. But as exhausted as they were, they looked happy. Why bring them down?

“I think—yeah, I think he’s slowing down.” They reeled steadily, and he could see the thin, ghostly line slicing closer through the dark water. Ripples thickened in its wake, roughening into splashes. He saw flashes of pale fins under the spray, and the unmistakable elongated snout of a paddlefish scything through the lake.

“No fucking way,” he said numbly, as Rook pulled the massive thing up onto the dock, dragging it back towards land as it thrashed.

“Hell yes, fucking shit goddamn, dude—I knew this thing was real!” they whooped gleefully, keeping a cautious distance from the violent writhing. “Ragnar, you old bastard, it’s nice to finally meet you.”

“Huh.” He wouldn’t have to call off the bet after all. He grinned, going to their side and slapping them on the back. “Good job, Dep. Guess I was wrong.”

They shrugged, smile fading a little. “First time for everything, right?”

He frowned. “I guess?”

Ragnar was still fighting, but they’d blocked him off from the water. His sides heaved, red gills flaring hard against the dry air. Sharky winced.

“Man, I hate to see ‘em like that.”

He felt Rook looking at him, but ducked his head, cheeks heating. Dumb to get squeamish about a big fish when he’d killed like a dozen people this week, but still. At least he’d killed ‘em quick. 

Dep edged around the flailing fish until their back was to the rest of the island, then hunkered low and tackled it, pinning it as best they could and scrabbling at its gasping mouth.

“What the fuck are you doing?” He started forward, but before he could grab them, they rolled off the fish and dug into the mud, shoving it back towards the lake.

“Gimme a hand?” they gasped, looking up at him as they pushed. “Watch out for his tail.”

“You’re a goddamn nut, Dep, I swear.” 

But he took up by their side and they both heaved the white paddlefish back into the shallows until it could wriggle off into the black depths. They were breathing hard, staring at the ripples that were all that was left of their battle with Ragnar. He eyed them warily, but after a moment they let out a quick breath and smiled at him.

“How’s dinner coming?”

“Wha—‘how’s dinner coming?’” he echoed incredulously as they wiped their palms on their jeans and walked to the bank, picking the discarded hook out of the dirt and carefully winding the line back into their rod. “You…you fought that thing for like…fifteen minutes.”

“Yeah,” they shrugged, avoiding eye contact. “And I won.”

“You let him go.”

They glared at him. “Didn’t you feel bad for him a second ago?”

“Well, yeah, but…I dunno, you could’ve shot him or something.” He shoved his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, frowning. “Wait, did you—you didn’t do that, uh, for me, did you?”

They bristled defensively, starting up the path back to the campsite. “It just felt shitty, that’s all. Watching him flop. Plus, like…he’s a local legend. Be sad for people around here to actually lose him, right?”

He followed them, unable to stop a grin from spreading, chest warm. “Totally.”

The smell of the fire, cooking fish, pine trees, and the river was wild and sweet and comforting on a primal level. Dep passed the fire, tugging the folding chairs out from the bushes and into the circle of orange light, side by side in front of the stone ring. They settled heavily into one and picked a skewer, inspecting the fish and testing the blackened skin before holding it back out over the flame. 

He checked the other skewer before taking a seat. Eh, could use a little longer. He laid it back across the stones and went to the tent, reclaiming the bottle of whiskey and waggling it invitingly at Rook.

“Hell yeah, bring that over here!” They grinned, checking their fish again and pulling a steaming chunk of white flesh off the skewer, blowing on it before popping it in their mouth.

He plopped down in his chair and unscrewed the cap, taking a quick slug before passing it over. “This shit could strip paint.”

They took a pull and made a face, squinting at the label. “You aren’t wrong.”

He spun his skewer idly, watching the fat drip into the shifting oranges and yellows, flecks of ash floating gracefully up into the sky. 

“You okay?” they asked quietly as the fire popped and crackled contentedly.

“Oh yeah,” he said, nodding. “Just wish we had a lemon or some butter or something. Pepper.”

“Mashed potatoes,” they added dreamily, and he grinned, looking over at them. They were watching him with a crooked smile, dark eyes reflecting the fire. He swallowed, knowing he shouldn’t stare, but he couldn’t look away. They leaned forward, chair creaking.

“Hey, Shark?”

“What’s—uh, what’s up, Dep?” Was his mouth hanging open? He couldn’t tell, but they were still leaning in. Any closer and they’d—

Their lips brushed his softly, their free hand cupping his cheek as his eyes slid closed. He held perfectly still, not wanting to move and break this spell or dream or whatever miraculous shit was making this feel so real, the shy insistence of their kiss and the bittersweet taste of them. Then a stab of guilt arced through his chest and he pulled back, blinking at them in confusion.

“You won the bet, though. You don’t have to—”

“I know,” they said, eyes wide, hesitant. “This is what I want.”

“Oh. Oh! Then, uh,” he grinned so wide it hurt his cheeks, leaning in eagerly. “I think you should get a do-over. Since I broke that one.”

They grinned back, tucking a finger in the vee of his hoodie. “Sounds fair.”

He dropped his fish in the fire, but it would be a long time before he even noticed it was gone.


End file.
